Rebecca Weber: Arrival of Summer
I thought that it would take me by surprise:
A certain flash of knowing this is it.
It came in slow degrees of shimmered skies. Continue reading . . . “Rebecca Weber: Arrival of Summer”
Fair Ellen was my love, her hair
as gentle as a summer sky,
and I dared not look on her, or there Continue reading . . . “Hermann Miller: Fair Ellen”
Rebecca Weber: Lullaby to a Wide-awake Mind
It’s bedtime. I repeat: It’s time for bed.
High time to settle down to blessed sleep.
Oh, frowsy brain, do not lift up your head
But nod off gentle in the shadows—keep Continue reading . . . “Rebecca Weber: Lullaby to a Wide-awake Mind”
Roger Biehn: Dream of the Airy Mob
Every generation will see its ending days
and some will fancy them the end of the end
and kindle on altars mounded of brick chunks
and concrete lumps one gasoline soaked tower of flame Continue reading . . . “Roger Biehn: Dream of the Airy Mob”
Dale Cottingham: Fruit In Season
Well darlings, morning again.
Time to get up and try some new steps.
We distaste the old way, the emulated way,
those lines we read that were elegant, intelligent Continue reading . . . “Dale Cottingham: Fruit In Season”
I wandered from the land of my design
To seek some new abode for my delight;
The land I’d left lay shrouded in the night,
And gated, lest perchance it might be mine. Continue reading . . . “Hermann Miller: The Shrine”
Leonard Nolt: What if the Dead Returned?
What if the dead returned,
Waking us at dawn with a knock on the door,
Or at dusk, as the sun falls…like a rock
Off the edge of the horizon? Continue reading . . . “Leonard Nolt: What if the Dead Returned?”
The night sky cups the world
We are 7, and then 8, and then 9 searching
Like small boats in a foggy harbor
Scattered and seeking Continue reading . . . “Lori Hershberger: Frog Hunt”
Roger Biehn: A Catechization of Locusts
What his fellows have said
he will repeat;
he knows
what all the locusts know, Continue reading . . . “Roger Biehn: A Catechization of Locusts”
Obi Martin: Gather Round the Kitchen
Gather round the kitchen
And watch the pages fly.
I’m reading on the stovetop Continue reading . . . “Obi Martin: Gather Round the Kitchen”
How many times, like Mary, have I looked
My Master in the face, and did not know
It was the Lord? Continue reading . . . “Rebecca Weber: Recognition”
I once draped blankets from the peach trees
And scared away the birds who thieved our cherries.
I carved my name into a slender, silver trunk Continue reading . . . “Claudia Martin: Fairy Ring”
Rebecca Weber: Seed of a Dream
It was not really this we dreamed of, long
Ago, though at that time we thought it was.
But how could we have dreamed the hidden laws Continue reading . . . “Rebecca Weber: Seed of a Dream”
Lynn Michael Martin: Outside My Window
Outside my window falls the autumn rain,
each drop as dark as night and rich with light;
the sky spills winter on the grass tonight Continue reading . . . “Lynn Michael Martin: Outside My Window”
Stretch out the bridge of morning in five keys,
Tighten each string
So that at each soft ray of daylight it can ring, Continue reading . . . “Jeremy Troyer: Morning Song”
In the merry month of May
they wove a house akin
to the one that’s built of dreams, but they Continue reading . . . “Phillip Lewis: Young Love”
The Jester: Thoughts on Jung, Ideas, and Responsibility
I’ve just made the rather surprising decision to retract my last article and I’m going to try to explain why I did that. I’m in favor of ideas. Continue reading . . . “The Jester: Thoughts on Jung, Ideas, and Responsibility”
Helen Miller: There’s a Valley Full of Sleepers
There’s a valley full of sleepers
Some say got stuck in the past,
Where there’s seven kinds of buggies,
Times seven kinds of fasts. Continue reading . . . “Helen Miller: There’s a Valley Full of Sleepers”
Spring is slow to come; from the south bearing
More winter moves the Colorado low
Casting ice pellets, freezing rain below
On the dreading neighborhoods, not caring Continue reading . . . “Roger Biehn: The Ice Storm”
I lay a slender sword against his chest;
Against his lips a liquid black I press.
He never cowers, but—receives the draught. Continue reading . . . “Richard Stoltzfoos: Triumph”
